Meg: Hell's Aquarium (21 page)

He hurdles the pavilion’s guardrail and slides down a steep grassy slope to the facility’s receiving area. Remaining concealed, he peeks around the corner of a concrete pillar.

The woman is yelling orders to the technicians in lab coats, who are frantically unchaining the railcar from the flatbed. Overhead, a crane designed to lift heavy cargo containers moves into position along tracks embedded in the loading dock’s ceiling. Workers secure the crane’s lifting arms into position around the railcar, which is then slowly offloaded from the flatbed and lowered into position on rails built into the concrete foundation.

Aluminum doors are raised, allowing a small railcar engine to exit the complex. As it backs into position, the engine’s coupler mates with the railcar container’s boot-lift connector. Moments later, the sixty-foot load is towed into the aquarium’s infrastructure and out of sight.

By the time David returns to the hotel, the morning sun has moved off the horizon, bringing with it a taste of the desert heat to come. He entertains thoughts of showering, but instead heads for the pool.

Kaylie, the lone swimmer, is doing laps. A few maintenance people linger on the pool deck, setting up chairs and stealing glances at her physique. David peels off his sneakers and jumps into the water, wearing his sweaty socks, shirt, and shorts.

The cool water revitalizes him. He rinses out his mouth then takes off his shirt and socks, ringing them out before tossing them on the closest chair.
Okay . . . laundry’s done.

“Hey!” Kaylie swims over, removing her goggles. She’s wearing a red one-piece
Speedo
. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back. I didn’t want to get out of the pool with all these workers staring at me; they give me the creeps. How was your run?”

“Good.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere special.”

“Liar. You went to the aquarium, didn’t you? So? How’s it look?”

“Great. Beautiful . . . at least from the outside. Not like there’s much to see.”

She stares at him, reading his expression. “Why are you acting so weird then? Did you see something?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

He looks around, making sure they’re alone. “They were moving a huge crate into the aquarium, and something was inside. I could hear it banging around.”

“Wow. What do you think it was?”

“I don’t know. A whale maybe? Whatever it was, it was big. Spooked the hell out of the guards.”

“Cool. Maybe we’ll get a peek of it later.”

“Maybe. But don’t say anything, Kaylie. Let’s keep it between us.”

“Okay.” She moves closer. Touches his chest and a pale, six-inch scar that contrasts with his tan skin, running from his left pectoralis to his deltoid. “That’s sexy. How’d you get that?”

“High school. Mary Alaina Edwards. She broke my heart then ripped it right out of my chest like a Mayan priest making a sacrificial offering to the gods.”

“An interesting visual.”

“It’s all true. She warned me not to fall in love with her, but I couldn’t help it.”

Kaylie leans in and kisses him gently on the lips. “I’m a free spirit, David. I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Tied down? Me either. I’ve never been into that whole S and M thing.”

“Shut up.” She slides her arm around his neck and kisses him again, this time with passion—

—neither one of them realizing that, six stories up, someone is watching.

12.

The Crown & Anchor
Monterey, California

The British Pub is located in the center of Old Downtown Monterey, just a short walk from Cannery Row. The floors are a dark mahogany, the posts and matching walls decorated with artifacts from vintage sailing ships. It is the kind of place one ducks inside to get out of the weather then remains for hours nursing a draft beer or three with new friends.

At one in the morning, it is a place to escape.

Patrick Duncan is forty, a devoted father who has been raising his teenage daughters alone since the day his ex-wife left them, deciding she preferred a lover of the same sex. Burned out by twelve years of bad relationships, he has taken a week’s vacation from his job as a business analyst to find himself in Monterey.

Patrick has been sitting at the bar for two hours conversing with Vicky Lynn Loehr, a high school marine science teacher from Jacksonville, Florida. Vicky is a self-professed shark nut who made the pilgrimage to Monterey a week earlier to see Angel and her juvenile pups. With the Tanaka Institute closed indefinitely, she has been spending countless hours wandering the Pacific coastline, renewing her love affair with the sea. She has never gone home with any man she met in a bar, but Patrick is a good listener, and life is too short.

These thoughts are echoed by the white-haired gentleman seated alone in a corner booth. He has not touched his clam chowder, even though he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He is not deserving of food. He is not deserving of company. Or pity.

Six hours ago he watched a friend die. The death was as horrible as it was meaningless, made worse by the fact that it was
his
fault.
What was so damn important about collecting a DNA sample? Did you really need to know the genetic history of that litter of monsters? Like the information’s going to alter the marine sciences as we know it . . .

What do I say to his wife and daughter? How can I  even face them? I’m so sorry, Mary, I know I destroyed your family today, but if it’s any consolation, my life is ruined, too.

What about my own wife and daughter? How do
I  justify my actions to them? Terry’s been pushing me to sell the Institute for years . . . she’s already on the verge of a nervous breakdown. My family deserves better than to watch me jump in the Meg Pen like live bait. And what about Mac? I asked him to put his life on the line. How can I face him again, or his wife?

Jonas stares at his reflection in a picture frame. The white hair. The slumped figure . . .

The Rolling Stones were right: What a drag it is getting old. Not that it ever affected them. Maybe I should sell the Institute and take up the guitar . . .

He glances over to another booth, occupied by two regulars: Maxine Davis and Lillie Burris. Maxine is in her nineties, Lillie in her eighties. Active seniors living in the same mobile home park. Happy. Content. Stress-free.

Sure . . . it’s not like they killed anyone today.

Mac enters the pub. He approaches Don Ruetenik, who is watching highlights of the Cleveland Indians-Detroit Tigers game on ESPN. The bartender, in his late sixties, never bothers to look up. “He’s in the corner, occupying space and time. I’m kicking him out in ten minutes. You want some chowder?”

“Put it in a cup with a rusty razor blade.”

Mac nods at the couple seated at the bar then saunters over to Jonas’s booth. “Hey, did you hear the one about the dyslexic guy who walked into a bra?”

No response.

Mac slides in across from him. “So what’s next, Evel?”

Jonas looks up. “What’d you call me?”

“Evel Knievel. For your next stunt, I think you should try to jump the Meg Pen on a motorcycle, wrapped in a ton of bratwurst.”

“Not now, Mac.”

“Jonas, I’m sorry about Steven. He was a good man, and he’s going to be missed. I also know there’s nothing anyone’s going to say to stop those self-absorbed feelings of guilt from churning in that snowy-white head of yours, but this one was not your fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“A: Moretti knew the risks since the day he first signed on to join our little zoo. He was well paid, he was good at his job, and for what it’s worth, he enjoyed it. B: You had no choice. Even if we hadn’t severed the crane’s cable, Moretti would have been stuck in the tank with Belle and Lizzy. C: Steven could have fled the
Jellyfish
at any time, but he wouldn’t risk it. You, on the other hand, jumped into the tank to save him in what has to be the ballsiest, dumbest fucking move since the first doofus strapped a set of wings to his arms and jumped off a cliff, believing he could fly.”

“You came in a close second. I told you to leap out of the tank if things got hairy. I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to land in Angel’s lagoon.”

“Hey, I can’t let you have all of the fun.”

Jonas smirks. “Two old dickheads, huh?”

“Got that right, amigo . . . although I’ve been feeling a bit more spry of late.”

“You have been smiling a lot more. I just assumed it was a new laxative. So what’s up?”

“Apparently my sperm count.” Mac beams a wide smile. “Trish is pregnant.”

Jonas’s face lights up. “No way. Wow. How long have you known?”

“Not long. To be honest, I’ve sort of been in shock.”

“That’s the best damn news I’ve heard in years.” Jonas gives him a two-arm bear hug—

—as Don Ruetenik approaches with a bowl of home-made New England Clam Chowder. “Hey, enough of that. This ain’t that kind of bar.” He places the bowl of hot soup in front of Mac. “Eat fast. I’m closing.”

“You put the rusty razor blades in it like I asked?”

“I’m out of razor blades, so I doused it with rat poison.” The bartender sticks his index finger in Jonas’s soup. “Wasted a perfectly good bowl of chowder. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I’d tell you, but you’re closing. Hey, congratulate Mac; he’s going to be a daddy.”

Ruetenik looks at Mac, half grinning. “Sure it ain’t the UPS guy’s kid?”

“Could be your soup? Maybe it put a little hitch in my giddy-up.”

“Not according to
my
wife.” Ruetenik collects Jonas’s bowl and shuffles off to the kitchen.

Jonas punches Mac in the arm. “Asshole! What the hell were you doing risking your life today with a baby on the way?”

“You have kids! What were you doing?”

“It’s my business.”

“Last I checked, I owned twenty-five percent.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You need to be more careful now; you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

“Look who’s talking, gramps. You’re the poster boy for the geriatric society . . . hobbling around on two bad knees . . . jumping into shark tanks like you’re some
Die Hard
action hero. Face it, I’m a stud compared to you.”

“Okay, so we’re both assholes.”

“Agreed. But unless you’re suddenly planning on retiring, don’t even think about putting me out to pasture.”

“Fine.”

“Good! Now let’s talk business. We’ve got major problems, not the least of which is that our star attraction has become camera shy. What do we do about that?”

Jonas looks at his friend. “We close off the canal, seal up the lagoon.”

Mac is about to respond when Don Ruetenik returns with Jonas’s bowl of soup, now steaming-hot. “Nuked it in the microwave. No charge. We close in five, ladies.”

Mac waits for the bartender to leave. “Sealing off the lagoon presents some major engineering challenges, not the least of which is the fact that the canal’s vented doors allow us to use the ocean as a filtration system. Seal the canal and we’d have to add more filters, more ozone contact chambers . . . all the devices we use to keep the Meg Pen clean.”

“I know.”

“Okay, assuming you add the plumbing, how do you plan on overhauling the lagoon with Angel still in it?”

“We’d have to prefabricate a barrier. Once it’s in place, we drain the canal and reinforce the new wall. Angel would have to be drugged, of course. I have a few ideas how it could be done, but I want to run them by Dr. Nichols. Have you seen him?”

“The shark trainer? Yeah. He took the DNA sample Steven managed to get from Belle and disappeared.”

“Probably in the lab.” Jonas takes out his cell phone, powers it on, then dials a number.

“Lab. Stelzer.”

“Jon, it’s Jonas. What are you still doing there?”

“Jonas, where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you all night. Never mind, just come down to the lab. Dr. Nichols has discovered something extraordinary.”

13.

Dubai Land
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

David Taylor finishes blow-drying his hair then pokes his head in the bedroom to check the time: 9:34 a.m.

His heart pounds with excitement, his mind continuously replaying the scene at the pool. Kaylie had entwined her body around his, the two of them touching and teasing one another until things had gotten a little too hot for being out in public. Gathering their belongings, they rode up together in the glass elevator, only to discover it was already 9:10 a.m., the monorail set to pick everyone up at ten.

“I have to shower. Come by my suite at nine forty-five, and we’ll ride down in the elevator together.

She had kissed him good-bye, long and passionate.

He can still taste her on his lips.

David leaves the bathroom, re-checking the time on the bedside clock: 9:37.
What to wear?

He empties his suitcase on top of his bed, rooting through the pile of wrinkled clothing.
Jeans? Too hot, and too tight to train in the Manta Ray’s cramped cockpit. Go with either the Florida sweat suit or the cargo shorts and a baggy tee-shirt.